


The Damns You're Not Giving

by spooky_blue



Category: Warcraft (2016), Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft, World of Warcraft - Various Authors
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Backstory, Implied Relationships, Love Story, M/M, Raventrust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2019-01-08 02:35:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12245394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spooky_blue/pseuds/spooky_blue
Summary: Khadgar is leaving for Karazhan, and meets a stranger (who is strangely familiar) who gives him some advice about the future.





	The Damns You're Not Giving

Khadar wound through the corridors like a shadow.  In a trick of the ancient stone architecture, his own breath seemed to flutter in his ears although he knew it was no more than a whisper.   Glowing violet stones illuminated the halls, flickering with the faintest ambient arcane, harnessed by the mages of the Kirin Tor in a casual display of power.   A plain, battered staff was strapped across his back.  He’d carefully carved the runes of power deep into the wood of the staff end, the center grip wrapped with simple bands of ragged cloth and twine.  This was Khadgar’s dueling staff, and he was making his way to the amphitheater, although he did not intend to duel.

The great amphitheater lay silent and dark, much like the rest of the citadel at this late hour.  Earlier the space had been filled with clamor and magic as students practiced under the watchful eye of their teachers.  At the edge, Khadgar paused to survey the open space.  The focal point of the arena was the vast open area in the center, the dirt packed firm and raked clean each night.  For novice duelers, paving stones looped into patterns that could serve to divide the arena into smaller spaces.  Only an archmage would need the entire arena.  Around the edges were rows of benches for spectators.

Satisfied that the place was empty, Khadgar breathed deeply and felt the hunch of his shoulders relax.  He moved towards one of the smaller spaces, his feet now crunching softly across the dirt.  Breath circled away from his face in a frosty cloud, the autumn chill settled into the evening and into his bones. 

Dueling tournaments were more than just a tradition in the Violet Citadel.  Participation was an honor and a privilege.  Tomorrow, only the best and brightest of the apprentice mages would face off against each other to exhibit their powers.  An opportunity to demonstrate their abilities before the senior mages from across Loraderon and beyond, each one hoping to make an impression and find a mentor who would find them worthy of apprenticeship.

Khadgar would not be among them. 

Although, he had no one to blame but himself.  The thought gnawed at him. 

Not because he wasn’t among the best and brightest of the Kirin Tor’s apprentice mages.  Indeed, Khadgar knew the depth of his powers alone would rank him among the most powerful arch mages one day.  But his natural curiosity ran as deeply as his connection to the arcane.  His inquisitiveness lead him on paths that some considered reckless, and others considered downright dangerous.   Questioning came to Khadgar as naturally as breathing, and when his teachers lacked answers, he had a way of finding his own.

Khadgar admitted that it was his own fault that he would not be dueling tomorrow.  He’d nosed his way into one too many secrets.  The esteemed mages of the Kirin Tor were deeply protective of their knowledge, and Khadgar had perhaps crossed too many lines in his pursuit for answers.

Tomorrow, he would be departing for Karazhan.  The assignment was a rare honor, his tutors had said.  In a sense, they were correct.  To apprentice with the greatest mage in Azeroth was impressive indeed…if one managed to survive the honor.  Many had been sent, and most had returned.  Been sent back, rather, returned to sender.  Some had lasted days on the assignment, and some had not.  The master magus Medivh had rejected them all.

Khadgar pushed back the hood of his plain, blue cloak, letting it fall to the ground unheeded.   Dark hair fell rakishly across his face, and he paused to brush it back.  He would not be in the amphitheater tomorrow, but at least he had tonight.  Lifting a hand, he softly chanted an invocation.  Amber lights glowed faintly around the perimeter of the amphitheater in response, awakened by the words of power in his spell and burning brighter and brighter until the place shown like day. 

He was alone in the arena, a tiny smudge of shadow across the vast space.  Khadgar shut his eyes and tipped his face towards the night sky.  Across the yard were a series of great hoops of metal, targets enchanted with strong arcane protections. 

Hands raised out to the sides in a gesture that might have been imploring, he spoke again, a soft string of words.   Softly, softly, then with greater intensity.  A complex pattern of arcane circled Khadgar’s hands, glyphs swirling as he chanted. The azure lines were deceptively faint as he gathered the power within himself until his skin was nearly buzzing from the strain.  When his eyes opened, they, too radiated the power that now filled his being.  Arcane bolts blazed across the sky, cracking the silence open wide.

Khadgar paused, surveying his work, as the bolts struck the edge of the largest target.  Shields of arcane shimmered briefly just beyond, absorbing the energy of the blast with ease.  Unsatisfied, Khadgar chanted again, and again.  He moved smoothly from spell to spell, climbing his way methodically up the registers of casting from the most modest of spells to the most dizzying.  His hands flaming, his eyes shining, Khadgar lost himself in the movement and in the night.

At last he stood, breathing heavily, hands splayed wide although the magic was now fading.  Gasping for air, Khadgar leaned forward and braced on his knees.  He’d pushed himself hard, moving through the physical movements that accompanied the defensive and offensive spells, simulating real combat as he’d dodged invisible enemies and slung bolts at intangible targets. 

“Not a bad,” said a soft, rich voice from the sidelines.  “For a warmup.” 

Khadgar’s head whipped around, started by the sudden appearance.

A tall, hooded figure leaned casually against one of the lighting poles.  A master mage, perhaps, although Khadgar couldn’t identify a face in the shadows. 

“Master,” Khadgar said after a moment, bowing briefly.  The richness of the figure’s robes suggested someone of high rank, or at least significant wealth.  They weren’t marked with the eye of the Kirin Tor, or any other enclave that Khadgar was familiar with.  He eyed the intruder warily, wondering if he were about to be lectured for appropriating the amphitheater after hours.

“I should have known you’d be here,” the figure said ruefully, shaking his head.  Eyes glinted in the shadows, and Khadgar found himself eerily on edge. 

Puzzled by the comment, Khadgar turned his head slightly to the side, questioning. “Sir…?”

“Never mind.” The figure pushed upright, and moved forward slowly.  A blue and grey hood still obscured the figure’s face.  Khadgar felt slightly dizzy, from the heavy spellcasting or from something else, he couldn’t say.  Why was the voice so familiar?

Bending, the figure picked up his staff, turning it slowly to examine the runes.  “Oh yes,” he murmured, fingers tracing along the wood.  “Aesith, and veroceine, and the other inclusions…hm.”  He looked up, eyes meeting Khadgar’s for the first time.  “You’d do well to try trona instead of monoarcanic sigils,” he said.  “Pairs well with the thermic channels you’re so fond of.”

Khadgar swallowed.  The stranger’s eyes were piercing, reflecting the washed-out blue irises displayed by mages that had channeled the most powerful of magics – teetering on the brink between life and death, burned from the inside out by the powers, and had yet survived.

Blinking, Khadgar replied muzzily, “Monoarcanic is less powerful, but I can move more rapidly between resonance plains…”  His voice trailed away, and he shook his head.  “But you’re right.  Trona would be a good pairing with the ashwood.  Sir, I’m afraid I don’t…?”

“Ah.  No.  You don’t know me,” stated the stranger, a hint of humor creeping into the sonorous voice.  “Of course not.  But you will.”

“But you know me.”

“I do,” the stranger said.  His head inclined in a nod.  “No matter.”

“You’re not from the Violet Citadel,” Khadgar tried again, determined to place the stranger.  “Are you here for the tournament?”

“Are you?” the stranger recounted.

“From the Violet Citadel?  No.  Yes.  From the Kirin Tor, I mean,” Khadgar said, feeling foolish and wondering why his tongue was stumbling.  Perhaps he’d expended more energy on the arena than he’d realized. 

“Here for the tournament,” corrected the stranger gently.  “I can see you’re a student of the Kirin Tor.”  He gestured towards Khadgar’s arm, the sleeves pushed up to the elbow and displaying the large, dark mark burned into his skin there. 

Khadgar shook his head mutely.  “I’m…not.  Not in the tournament.”

The stranger moved for the stands that encircled the dueling floor, gesturing for Khadgar to follow.  “Sit,” he said.  “Catch your breath.

Khadgar nodded, although his breath was nearly caught.  He waited for the stranger to speak again, stealing glimpses of the other mage from the corner of his eye. 

The man seemed happy enough to sit in silence, however, leaning back comfortably on his forearms and surveying the night sky.  “I haven’t stood on this dirt in an age,” he said at last.  “Not much has changed.”

“No,” Khadgar agreed.  Nothing ever changed in the Violet Citadel.  “Are you here on business?” he burst, unable to contain himself any longer.  The man wore traveling clothing, he’d realized, serviceable enough for anything from battle to airflight on gryphon back.  “Are you here to see the Council of Six?”

“Maybe I’m on the Council of Six,” countered the man with a chuckle. 

“No.” Khadgar shook his head.  “I would know.”  Very few people knew the identities of the Violet Citadel’s most powerful and reclusive ruling mages, but Khadgar was among those few.  He did possess nearly insurmountable powers of curiosity – and snooping.  There were very few secrets that he hadn’t managed to weasel his way into; not an insignificant part of the reason why he was being sent to Karazhan.  Many in the Violet Citadel were hoping he wouldn’t return, Khadgar had realized.  He was too bright, too powerful, took too many risks, and knew too damn much. 

The man laughed out loud at this, and Khadgar realized that he sounded very brazen.  “Yes, I believe you would,” he admitted.  “Always a nosy little pup, weren’t you?”

Embarrassed now, Khadgar looked down at his feet for a moment, then defiantly back up at the stranger.  Meeting the cool, blue eyes again, he felt a shiver run down his back.  “Who are you?” he asked, deciding directness was the best approach.

The stranger reached across and ruffled his dark hair, smiling again.  “No white streak?” he mused, almost to himself.  “It seems that it’s very near the time…”

Khadgar shrugged away from the touch.  White streak?  What was the man referring to?  The stranger’s own hair was a shock of white, also burned clean by whatever magics had ravaged his body that also burned out his eyes.  The man must be very powerful, indeed.

Sensing his discomfort, the stranger pulled away.  “I am no one of consequence,” he replied gently.  “I am but passing through this place.  My business is urgent, and my stay will be short.”

Khadgar nearly squirmed with the need to know more.  He raised an eyebrow, questioning.  “Yet you have time to visit the dueling arena?”

“Alas,” the stranger replied, “Even the most pressing of matters must wait until the time tilts rightly.”

“You’re not from this plane,” Khadgar breathed suddenly.  “You’re not from our world.”

“Clever lad.  No, I’m not.”

“Just passing through.”

“Indeed.”

Khadgar paused, surprised by the ease of the man’s admission and satisfied that he’d correctly guessed. “I’m passing through, too.  Well, I’m leaving Dalaran, anyway.  Tomorrow.”

“Oh?”

“I’m being sent on assignment.  To Karazhan,” Khadgar said importantly.  “That’s why I’m not in the tournament tomorrow.”  Some of the ambivalence crept into his voice, making it crack stupidly at the last moment, and he stared at his feet. 

“Ah, Karazhan,” breathed the stranger.  Passing from his lips, the name sounded like a prayer.  “You know, I was sent to Karazhan, too.  A long time ago.”

“Really?” Khadgar sat up with interest.  “But you didn’t stay?”

“A long time ago,” repeated the stranger.  “A lifetime ago.”

“What was he like?” asked Khadgar, his voice almost a whisper.  “The magus?”  He wanted to know more about the mysterious mage, so powerful and revered that his name was hardly spoken among the Kirin Tor without jealousy and fear.  The man he was to apprentice himself to, to give his soul to, in exchange for knowledge and power.  The terrifying unknown of his future.

“Medivh?” the stranger sounded surprised.  “That’s a name I haven’t spoken….” His voice trailed away, and silence moved in to fill the space between them. 

The moon had climbed high in the night sky, and Khadgar felt himself growing cold from the layer of sweat that beaded across his body from the training exertion.  He longed to get his cloak from the middle of the arena floor, but feared that if he wavered for a moment, the stranger would flicker away.

“He is everything you have heard, and more,” the stranger said at last.  “Medivh is mercury, he is gold.  He is danger incarnate.  I would die for him.”

Khadgar stared, his eyes wide.  “That’s the problem,” he confessed.  “I haven’t heard anything about him!  Everyone fears him, but no one will say why.  I’ve looked everywhere I can think of, and I can’t find anything about him.  I know that he’s dangerous, and powerful, and I think that’s why they’re sending me away.”  The confession had slipped out of Khadgar before he could stop himself. 

The man tilted his head sideways, looking at Khadgar. “Oh?”

“The Kirin Tor, my teachers,” Khadgar explained lamely.  “They are…worried about me.  They think I’m a problem.  They think Magus Medivh will be their solution.”

The stranger nodded sympathetically.  “Getting a little too inquisitive, my friend?  ‘We’d better send him off to Karazhan,’ am I right?”

Khadgar nodded bitterly.  “Something like that.  Many don’t return, at least not the same.  Karazhan changes them.”  His fists clenched against his pants, frustration cresting in his chest like a rising wave.  “They’re hoping I won’t.  Return, I mean.”

“Well.”  The stranger rubbed a hand through his short, white hair.  Khadgar did not judge him to be an old man, but couldn’t place his age.  “You may come back knowing a little bit about everything they hoped you’d never figure out.  Did you think of that?”

Khadgar smiled crookedly.

“Do you remember when you were a little boy, studying under Master Guzbah?  He kept a big glass jar of apples in his study, didn’t he?  Great big golden ones.” 

Mesmerized, Khadgar could only nod.  How could the stranger know what Master Guzbah kept in his study?  Unless, perhaps, he were a former student? 

“Oh, the beating when he learned you’d taken one,” the stranger chuckled ruefully.  “An apple from the tree of Anetha’s Tears.  In your belly.” 

Khadgar squirmed uncomfortably.  He hadn’t known the value of the apples.  He’d simply been hungry, and the apples were there, and smelled so sweet…

“You ate the apple because you were hungry, and the apple was sweet.  Isn’t it so?” the stranger asked.  “What kind of ideology is that to deny a boy food when he is hungry and the apple is there?”

“I didn’t know,” Khadgar protested weakly.  “No one told me that those apples were worth my weight in gold.”

“Precisely,” the stranger’s grin was feral in the moonlight.  “And they never will.  You can ask, and poke, and prod, and they’ll deign to reveal what secrets they choose, one tiny morsel at a time.  You hunger and thirst for knowledge, Khadgar.  The Kirin Tor cannot satisfy that craving.”  He looked at Khadgar solemnly.  “What kind of ideology keeps a man from getting what he needs?”

He stood slowly, stretching his limbs to the sky, sleeves falling back across his forearms as he moved luxuriously.  “You will do well in Karazhan, young one.  Medivh is a fountain.  Drink deeply of his gifts and enjoy while you can.”

“Dawn comes,” Khadgar said softly, not knowing how to reply.  His chest was filled with kind of an ache by the stranger’s words.  Something was fluttering between his bones, and he wished he could let it out to fly freely. 

“The Council didn’t like me before, and they probably won’t like you now,” said the stranger.  “But they aren’t rid of me yet.  Well, I learned a little more from Karazhan they they’d bargained for, and you will too.”

“You asked what he was like,” the stranger went on.  “Medivh.  He is the most powerful and terrifying mage I’ve ever met.  He can make the sky dance.  He can make time bow.  Enemies are crushed before his wrath and his fury is like a raging storm.  But he is a still man, my child, and although he’d never admit it, he is alone.  He needs you.  Be good to him.  Be a strength to his weakness.  Give him joy, and give him laughter through the grief.  Love him freely if you please.”  He stopped, and Khadgar thought something welled in his eyes.

“You loved him,” Khadgar whispered.

“Indeed,” the silver head nodded, looking far across the distance.  “But I wasn’t enough.  I pray that you will be.”

Khadgar scrambled to his feet.  “Where are you going?” he asked, as the stranger gathered himself.  

“Where I must,” replied the man, humor crinkling his eyes at the corners.  “Business.  Urgent.  Remember?”

“Right,” Khadgar muttered.  He didn’t want the stranger to leave.  Somehow, he felt there was more to say, but the words wouldn’t come out.  “I know you,” he choked at last.  “I saw the mark on your arm.”

The stranger glanced down, belatedly fixing his sleeve to cover the dark mark on his arm.  The mark that mirrored the one on Khadgar’s arm exactly. 

“You’re me,” Khadar breathed.  “From another world.”

“Another lifetime,” the archmage corrected gently.  “You are but a dream.  Or I am.  But who is the dreamer?” he finished, muttering almost to himself.  “Lad, for what you are about to face, you will need more courage than you know.  But you will survive, and Light willing, you will do better than I did.”

Turning, he took Khadgar’s face gently in his hands, palms rough from use.  Khadgar now saw that he wore a sword strapped at his side.  In the growing light, he drank in the other’s face, seeing each scar and wrinkle and wondering, what had this man seen, so similar to his own and yet so different.

“I leave you with this, young Khadgar.”  His voice was an invocation, and Khadgar listened closely, afraid to even breathe.  “Don’t let anyone ever tell you who to be.  You will be a mage of the ages, Khadgar.  Ask questions.  Love freely.  Do what must be done.  And when you get damned in the popular opinion, it’s just another damn of the damns you won’t give.  You might die for him, Khadgar.  Do you understand me?”

Khadgar felt his eyes filling with tears that did not spill out, that he would not let spill out.  He wasn’t sure he understood.  He nodded nonetheless.

The stranger clasped his arm, then pulled him close into a hug.  Khadgar stood pressed shoulder to shoulder, dark brown head buried against the silvery white, and the two clung to each other.

Pulling away at last, the stranger gave a small sigh.  Khadgar opened his mouth to ask another question, then closed it abruptly at a look from the piercing blue eyes. 

The older Khadgar took a few paces back and raised his hand, power rippling forward in a shockwave as the beginning of a transportation spell was called forward.  Blue glyphs circled his hands and feet and the arcane structures prepared the portal.

“Wait!” Khadgar called, stepping forward urgently.  “Please.”  His voice caught for a moment, but he stared at the older version of himself intensely, willing him to stay.  He was horribly, miserably afraid to ask, but he had to know.  “Will he love me?” he asked, softly, baring his soul at last to the stranger who was not so strange anymore.

Blue eyes flickered.  A smile.  Then softly, so softly, “He will.”

And then he was gone.

The courtyard shone with the first rays of dawn.  Khadgar could hear birdsong, distantly knowing the birds had been singing for some time.  There was yet stillness surrounding him, as if the world itself were waiting for him to breathe again.  In the dreamlike quality of the early dawn, he could scarcely convince himself that the encounter had truly happened, save for the tear tracks that had stained his dusty cheeks.

At last, Khadgar moved for his cloak and staff, forgotten in the middle of the amphitheater.   In a few hours’ time, he would pack his rucksack and scarlet letter of introduction.  He would journey to a place unknown to face the most dangerous and terrifying mage of the land.  And, improbably, impossibly, he would love this mage.  For whom he might die.

Khadgar smiled.  Taking a deep breath, he turned to face the citadel and his future.

He was ready.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired as a mashup prequel to The Last Guardian by Jeff Grubb, and the Khadgar of the movie. I took a lot of liberties at smashing everything together and even mixing it up with some of my own stories' timelines. 
> 
> Other inspiration was song Getting Ready to Get Down by Josh Ritter: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HnQ89jZvZD0
> 
> Hope you like it!


End file.
